


si vales, valeo

by neytirijade



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drug-Induced Sex, Episode: s06e21 Field Trip, F/M, First Time, Hallucinogens, Post-Episode: s06e21 Field Trip, Season/Series 06, Shameless Smut, atths, giddy up, welcome to the trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neytirijade/pseuds/neytirijade
Summary: Si vales, valeo: when you are strong, I am strong."She craves this now. She’s hungry for it, physically famished, starved for contact other than the soft trail of her own fingers. A hollow whine escapes her throat, pleading—a low hum that leaves her lips vibrating, beckoning. She wonders what’s taking Mulder so fucking long."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested listening: Anything by Alt J.  
> More specifically: Bloodflood part I and II, Arrival in Nara/Nara/Leaving Nara, Hunger of the Pine, Tessellate, Intro, Every Other Freckle.  
> The fic is of course readable without the suggested listening, but definitely let me know if you listen to it while reading.

The thermostat reads 68 degrees. On any other day, Scully would be bundled up under her covers in her favorite flannel pajamas, probably reading one of her medical journal subscriptions, or maybe going over a case file. She always found it funny that Mulder, in the near seven years together, had yet to realize her tendency to pull old case files and bring them home over the weekends. They’re usually cases from the years before she joined the X Files, since she knows the ones after her placement alongside Mulder nearly by heart. She loves to pore over them, but that’s something she’d never admit to him.  
  


She shivers against the cold. She’d wrenched her bedroom and living room windows open, the air conditioner in the apartment still blowing a steady breeze through the vents, and she’s lying in bed wearing nothing but a pair of pale yellow cotton underwear—yet still a sheen of sweat covers her body like a snakeskin, thick and sticky, but somehow not entirely uncomfortable. She feels heavy, and each pore of her skin feels achingly, deliciously, agonizingly _alive_.  
  


Once, after she’d graduated high school, she and Melissa went to a rave, deep in a sketchy part of the city. Missy had been surprised she had so easily convinced her sister to go. But it was June, it was 1985, and, having just graduated high school—with a half-dozen university acceptance letters to choose from—Scully had no studying to do and no obligations hanging over her; she felt more carefree than she’d been most of her life. So when she and Missy were offered ecstasy there, at the first party Scully had been to since she quit having her own birthday parties at fourteen—imagine Missy’s surprise when she watched her sister hesitate for only a second before popping the small, smiley-face printed pill between her lips.  
  


Right now, Scully feels a lot like what she remembers of that night, her fingernails lightly skimming across her stomach and over her breasts. Maybe her shivering didn’t have anything to do with the breeze whispering against her skin so much as the electricity her long, manicured nails emit as they trail along her body, lighter than the fervent sigh escaping her throat. She is fascinated by the sensation, moaning gently against the cool night air, and watches the darkness above her bed drift, morph, her dilated pupils taking in small flecks of dust that float through the space surrounding her.  
  


That night she and Melissa took ecstasy, she’d never been more grateful for the senses of her body. The music pulsed in her veins. The sticky heat of bodies packed tightly inside the club would have bothered her if she’d been sober, but this, and everything else that flooded her senses that night, made her laugh at the accuracy of the name of the drug. She reveled in the touch of clothes on her skin, the drink in her hand—when she took a sip and let the bubbly liquid slide down her throat, she’d sigh against the sensation—and this was no difference as she danced that night, her skin making contact with the other, incredible beings pulsating around her, strangers though they were.  

She craves this now. She’s hungry for it, physically famished, starved for contact other than the soft trail of her own fingers. A hollow whine escapes her throat, pleading—a low hum that leaves her lips vibrating, beckoning. She wonders what’s taking Mulder so fucking long.

If she’s being honest with herself, she knows he is just as hesitant to move from his leather couch, sticky with his own sweat, his body as heavy to lift as hers and his strength just as low. But she feels him now, his heat moving closer, ever so slowly—though, idly, she wonders if she’s hallucinating this, if her mind is playing out a scenario which she’s denied herself except on very rare occasions. She’s able to shut off the voice of reason, the scientific perspective, easier under the effects of the mushroom spores they’d encountered in North Carolina.  
  


She wouldn’t want to go through that experience again, not all of it; the beginning of it—being trapped underground—was much like a neverending nightmare. Now, it’s much different. Scully thinks of the flashing technicolor of that underground rec room, blacklights inverting the rainbow of colors, the sporadic pulse of strobe lights a sobering glimpse back into reality, if only for a moment.

_Mulder_.  
  


Whether Scully speaks out loud or not, she can’t tell. Her throat is too dry, and she wants to get up to get a glass of water. But she knows he hears her, somehow, and thinks _jesus, I’m just tripping, aren’t I?_  
  


_Yes_ , he answers. She doesn’t hear it, nor feel it, nor imagine it. He’s with her in that rec room, and somehow he’s drawing closer. His affirmation becomes a truth to her, as simple and as real as their partnership, as the friendship and love and _tension,_ coiled tighter than a wire spring, ready to pop ( _god, do_ not _think about something like that right now)_ , but for a moment, she’s afraid—is she really just still high, or is she still underground, Mulder beside her, both of them unknowingly dying beneath the roots of the earth?  
  


_It’s okay. I can feel you moving closer._  
  


She doesn’t try to correct him, because it’s Mulder whose phantasm moves slowly, so slowly, to her prone form in the near pitch blackness of her bedroom. Her fears are quelled, because if she is dying, then _fuck_ , whatever, just _come here_ , damn it. She has never physically ached for anything before, but it feels magnificent, knowing the center of her desire isn’t far away.

There’s this small part of her, a sense shared between the both of them, which fears the coming events of this night. Isn’t that the reason they’d kept each other at arm’s length for so long—the reason they’d never allowed this scene to play out, except for in the cages of their own psyches, late at night, long after they’d separated?  
  


She feels him smile. _Silly, isn’t it?_

_ Yes. _

_ What would you have imagined this night like before, Scully? Would you have imagined it took a hallucinogen to make us take this step forward? _

She breathes out a laugh. _Makes sense. It is us, after all._

He smiles again.

As she waits, she lets her mind drift. She begins to play out the daydreams she’s had, to answer his question. She feels her skin flush hot— _hotter,_ she remembers—when she does. But she doesn’t drive them from her mind; she lets them play, a thick filmreel in her psyche.  
  


The very first fantasy she’d had of him was early in just the first few months, and he’s mildly surprised by this. Scully can’t recall what they were arguing about that afternoon— _the existence of something or other, I’m sure_ , he adds—but she remembers leaving the office to take a walk around the Hoover Building; she’d told Mulder she was going out to eat, but that was a lie. She’d had to walk off the steady ache between her thighs, and the fantasy that came to her so suddenly, standing in front of him in his office— _their_ office—that she’d blushed a deep scarlet and had to excuse herself ten minutes early.

She feels herself smile at the familiarity of the fantasy. Mulder helps her play it out, of course—soon, her imagined self is bent over the desk, skirt hiked high up her hips, his fingers greedily finding their way past her underwear and between her thighs, slicker against his fingers than he could have ever believed. They both moan, echoes of each other, miles away.

Just as she pictures Mulder moving himself behind her on the desk, his pants unbuttoned, his pulsing cock slipping just past her entrance— _fuck—_ the image begins to change.  
  


This time, in no particular time or place, she imagines him taking her against a wall, slowly—agonizing, but hard, rough when his slow strokes near the hilt of her insides—the last inch, he drives so deeply into her that it makes her stomach hurt. He holds her face in one hand, not allowing her hungry mouth to meet his, and makes her come in the daylight, with the rush of _what if someone sees…_? But this only brings her closer, makes her come harder, is lost in the wave of whimpers she tries to stifle before they escape her throat.

_ Scully.  _ His disbelief, clouded in lust, allows her to hum delightedly in response, the sleepy, aroused stupor bringing about in her the need to see him squirm. Or feel him, rather.

_Jesus. Scully._  
  


This time, she doesn’t respond. She only slowly rises up on the bed, her hand stretching across empty, cool sheets, the covers thrown to the foot of the bed. She sits on the edge, both literally and figuratively, as she feels the beat between them echo closer.  
  


She doesn’t have to say the words to beckon him to her. She never had to.  
  


Too long passes before Scully’s heightened senses pick up a light grind of metal against metal. It feels like hours between the time she’s finally sat up to the side of her mattress, when it was only just minutes. Scully fights a bit with herself, trying to rationalize how she hears so much, how she can hear _him_ , how she knew he was just a simple, few dozen steps from her before she heard him unlock her door and twist the knob open.

Her apartment is completely dark, but with the windows open, the glimmer of the moon gives them just a sliver of illumination that, if they weren’t so hyperaware, wouldn’t be much light at all. But the darkness is completed as Scully shuts her eyes, her head tossed backward as she sucks a deep lungful of air into her body. She feels like there is too much oxygen in the space around her, yet she gasps for it anyway.  
  


Minutes pass. She isn’t sure when he actually arrives at her bedroom door, nor how long he stands there, watching her in the near blackness. The headiness of his presence is enough to stifle the tether that links them, cerebral and inevitable, and Scully doesn’t know he’s stepped closer until she feels his hand, vast and hot against her thigh, repeating the earlier touches she had given herself—feather light, but much less sure than her own touch, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear. Her hand slides over his, up under the leather of his jacket, slipping along the sheen of skin over his hand and wrist that’s not unlike her own—in an attempt to root herself here, to him, to the reality she questions taking place before her. She still hasn’t moved, her head still tossed back, and she doesn’t want to—not at first, because she’s afraid if she lifts her head to look at him, he’ll dissolve into the strange, yellowed substance that had so very nearly consumed them both, not 72 hours ago. But she seems to float slowly back into her body, as much as she can in this state, and away from that drug addled nightmare when she feels Mulder’s other hand move over the exposed ridges of her throat.

She doesn’t know how long they remain like this—time passes in increments, in the slow moving of Mulder’s hands over her flesh, vibrant and electric under his fingertips. The passing of these minutes come to a standstill, however, when she picks her head up, and her eyes meet his, impossibly, in the dark of her bedroom. His hands pause as impossibly as the time seems to, and Scully thinks her heart does for a moment, too.  
  


All that exists between them is their breath—Mulder’s is heavy and hot against her bare breasts, and she never realized how close he was to her, his face tilted up at her as the grip of both of his hands now holds steady against her hips. Scully can almost see the two of them from another perspective—holding each other, unmoving, their gazes unwavering almost in a silent conversation. But it isn’t words shared between them—not upon their lips, nor whispers of love murmured telepathically in whatever is linking them deeper than Scully could ever describe. It’s the aftereffects of the mushroom spores, of course. But they both knew this was going to happen sooner or later, one way or another. They accept this now, silently.  
  


Her eyes don’t leave the hazel of Mulder’s stare, and she suddenly has feeling in her hands again, so she moves them to his shoulders to push the edges of his jacket down. He moves to let her.

Scully finally breaks eye contact as she runs her fingernails down his bare arms, her gaze following the movement of her fingers. Mulder shivers the way he did when he felt the ghost of those same nails over his own stomach—when it was impossible, because they weren’t even within miles of each other, but he felt her caressing her own skin as if it were his. The real thing is better, but Mulder can’t tell much of a difference. It still makes him burn for her in a way no words could even begin to express.

Nails sliding over his shoulders, Scully clenches the fabric of his t-shirt in her fists, and she curls toward him, her body craving his, as she rids him of the garment. When the shirt is tossed somewhere behind him, Mulder rests his head against her solar plexus. She’s having a hard time breathing, her fingers raking lightly through his hair. Then she gasps, because he’s somehow moved closer, and his mouth finds her stomach. It’s hot, burning, like everything else—the world sizzling around them, static electricity buzzing viciously in the air, the tether connecting them morphing into a live wire.  
  


It’s mostly just his breath that makes her tremble. The air, the open windows, and Mulder’s lips—barely grazing her skin, painting a scarlet trail from her navel to the space between her breasts—she’s still sticky with sweat, but the combination gives her hands a light tremble as she snakes her arms around him and pulls him up onto the bed with her. Scully rests on her back again, this time, lightly tugging Mulder with her until his head rests on her heaving chest.

Her fingers run through his hair, her lips resting just at the top of his head as they catch their breath inside of each other. Mulder’s hand flutters over her ribcage, his thumb over the front, just under her right breast, and his fingers spanning out under her back against the soft sheets of her mattress. The stretch of his hand over her is heady, and makes her feel small underneath him.

They drift, in and out of sleep, in and out of each other’s hallucinations, for a while. The solid muscle of Mulder’s abdomen presses against the ache between her thighs, and she knows he can feel the saturated fabric of her panties against his sweat slicked flesh. But neither of them moves. Not yet.  
  


Their psyches merge in a blur of images, mostly incoherent as they float directionless with each other under the silver light that glows over the bedroom. After a while, Scully opens her eyes to look at the moon, now swimming high in the open window. She’s never felt this peace before.

The images between them stop, and Mulder gives her ribcage a light squeeze before lifting his head and pressing his lips lightly to the space where her heart beats wildly in her chest at his touch. His hand travels to her hips, then brings his fingers around the back of her thigh as he tastes the skin of her throat.  
  


Scully brings her arms around him, her hands moving over his skin and through his hair. She hums her approval when he nips her collarbone, but then, with urgency, pulls him up so they are face-to-face.  
  


She has to lift her head just a bit to look at him as he sits up, pulling her closer. His hands idly play with her underwear, fingers slipping under each side of the waistband. She lifts her hips to let him remove them.

Their eyes locked, Mulder tickles lightly along the insides of both thighs. They are both fascinated by each other’s dilated pupils, their sight enhanced to see more of the energy around them. Then Mulder slides a fingertip along her labia, and Scully’s breath hitches when his thumb swiftly runs over her tender clit. Her hips try to meet his touch, but he pulls his hand back just a bit when she tries.

“Mulder.” It’s the first word that has actually passed between them, thinly veiled underneath a hollow moan. She’s surprised by the hoarseness in her voice—whether from disuse, or something _else_ , she isn’t sure. Mulder slips two fingers along her slick folds, watching her pull her lip between her teeth as he slides his index and middle finger over her clit, and then back down. This time, he slides the two fingers inside of her.  
  


The cry of surprise is swallowed by his lips—his fingers move deeper into her, but he’s kissing her now, and she realizes it’s the first real kiss they’ve shared. Scully pulls him closer, the hair on his chest now tickling her bare breasts. The deeper she kisses him, the deeper his fingers bury themselves into her slick depths.  
  


His thumb begins working over her clit, passing over the sensitive flesh with each stroke inside of her. Mulder’s other hand slides underneath her body, holding her close to him as he pulls his lips from hers, moving down her throat, and slides his tongue over the hard peak of her left breast, then to the other. She grips him tightly, clenching fistfuls of hair at the base of his scalp, and she thinks she’s going to come—it’s as if this entire experience has been one monumental orgasm—and then his lips descend on her, his free hand moving to lift her up and open to him, and his warm tongue finds her clit.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she keens into the open air, the images behind her eyelids dipping and curving into stark shapes and colors. When she opens them to look down at him, his mouth is hot on her pussy, devouring the sticky essence that flows from within and down over his fingers. He’s quite literally feasting off of her, and the sight makes Scully begin to tremble once more.

It takes her a minute or two to realize that, _fuck, Mulder, that feels so fucking good,_ but she can’t come. She isn’t sure why, but she can’t deny him that pleasure, so she tugs lightly at him while she sits up.  
  


Another moan vibrates past her throat when his fingers slip out of her. Their eyes lock, and immediately he understands; still, Scully takes her hand in his, and watches Mulder begin to take deeper breaths as her mouth closes over his slick fingers, tasting her own arousal on his skin.

Her hand comes up behind his head to pull him to her lips again, and their moans vibrate off one another’s at the taste of her between them. Scully moves her fingernails lightly down over his stomach and to his belt buckle—then stops for a moment, pulling from his lips and glancing behind him. She raises an eyebrow at him— _you already took your shoes off?—_ but he just shrugs, not entirely knowing what she was glancing at, the drug’s effects slowly waning, and lets her unbuckle his belt and pull loose the button on his jeans.

Scully lets him scoot over to the edge of the bed to pull his jeans and boxers off over his feet, and when he joins her again at the center of the bed, he moves to lie above her again—but she stops him, pushing him lightly back onto his knees as she turns around, bringing his arms around to her stomach, and takes his full length into her hand. She moves over his thighs, her free hand moving over his jaw, and he watches her tongue slip past her lips to wet them as her fingers wrap around his thickness. This time, it’s Mulder who raises his eyebrow at her.

“I can’t wait to have my mouth on _you_ ,” she answers him, the words throaty against his lips. “But…” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.

They both inhale sharply as she places him at her entrance; bracing herself, one hand on his face, the other arm slung over his that holds her close, she slowly lowers her heat down onto him.  
  


There’s a moment of adjustment—not physically, but rather, of the pure bliss that surrounds both of them in this moment, as she now rests completely over him, Mulder deep inside her and holding her tightly. Scully throws her head back onto his shoulder, and her lips move behind his ear.  
  


She debates on what exactly she wants to say to him, but finally, she just settles on “ _Fuck me, Mulder.”_  
  


He slides his hands underneath her, nearly lifting her off of him, and then drives his hips—and his cock—deep into her. She cries out, her hand tightening in his hair once again, and tries to remember to breathe.  
  


“I always knew you’d feel amazing,” Mulder whispers against her hair, “but I never knew it would be _this_ good.”

She moans, and his hips find a slow, but deep rhythm. She keeps his face turned toward her, hot breath and frenzied moans dissolving against each other’s tongues. The hand that grips his arms, wrapped tight around her midsection, pulls free the fingers of one of his own hands, and moves it down over her clit once again.  
  


“Oh, _God,”_ Scully breathes. The deep, pulsing strokes that his cock makes inside of her hits the sweet, tender inch of her G-spot with every upstroke. She didn’t think she could possibly get this high, this close to the peak, before falling. But she rides backward on him, her nails lightly scratching the stubble of his jaw, and shows him how to rub her clit with her free hand.  
  


“ _Mulder,_ ” she keens into his hot mouth. His hand moves up to her jaw, turning her face toward the ceiling, dragging his teeth against her throat.  
  


And suddenly, the trek up to that peak suddenly becomes worth it; Scully topples over the edge at last—her hips driving back into his, her back arching violently against his chest. “ _Fuck, ohh-”_ she cries against him, and he abruptly follows her down, his arms fairly crushing her to him as they ride the fierce riptide of their release.

They breathe heavily against one another for a time, then Scully slips gently off of him—both of them sighing deeply, still sensitive at the ecstasy of their joining—and down onto the mattress. Rolling over, she extends her hand.  
  


Mulder moves over her once again, settling back into the position they lay in earlier, when he first came to her. They lie quietly, catching their breath, chests heaving against the other.

He mumbles something against her skin, and she thinks it might be ‘thank you’.

Scully slips a finger under his chin to force his eyes to meet hers. “For what?”

He doesn’t answer.

So she kisses him, pulling him more fully on top of her, and breathes against his mouth: “You’ve got nothing to thank _me_ for, Mulder,” she whispers. Staring deep into his eyes, she notices his pupils have grown just slightly smaller than when she first noticed. She realizes he must be coming back to reality, coming back into himself—and his doubts have come back, as well.  
  


“Mulder, that was as much for you as it was for me,” she said. “Didn’t you hear the things I said to you before you came here? The things I showed you, the things I helped you feel?”  
  


“Yes, but—”

“No,” she says, a finger over his lips. “No buts, Mulder. I wanted this. I _want_ you.”  
  


His hands come up to cradle her face. He doesn’t respond—he only nods, then kisses her again, pulling her closer in the light of the moon.  
  
  


_ end _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone over at Tumblr for the feedback and support. Legit I'm doing this for you guys. ;)


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